Momo

All words sank into space: gaps between sound where silence draws its first and slow breath like closing portcullis—a blue-faced babe smothered with a blanket. From a watchtower at the end of the desert, a clown lifted into fire. Satan licks the blood of bees.

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I do not believe in human death, only the shattering of teeth: a pink skull exploded at noon—its vertex reversed into red shards glowing with an inversion of heat sank back into cold thought (blind and silver eels). Coldness is my only religion.

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I stole a handkerchief of marbles from the marketplace and studied the wrinkles of colour: yellow, blue and green suspended in glass. I counted ten eyeballs extracted from the head of a poet tied to a billiard table—nerves torn like lightning from his cloudless back.

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